The Hanged Man
by Glacious
Summary: In the wake of a Dark Lord's rise, Harry fights for what's just. Factions spring up in the soil of the wizarding world, and with each mistake, everything spirals down; friend and foe unite and loyalties are divided with Harry in the midst of an insidious war that compels him to realize his gifts and pick a side.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**** Harry Potter and its characters are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. I am making no money from this, and this is just a work of fanfiction.**

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**That out of the way, a few important things to note before you read this:**

This isn't time travel. The Harry here isn't a time traveller; he is the first born of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, and at the beginning of this fic he is in his sixth year.

This fic is set in the early 70s. The exact date isn't important, but it's an AU (entirely AU, tbh, except for the characters and the magical system; and I can promise that the latter will have no mention of a magical core or any other abomination that seeks to emulate a chakra system, as in Naruto) that aims to chronicle Voldemort's rise the first time around.

I've tried to envision a young Bellatrix who isn't anything like the usual ones you stumble across in Harry x Bellatrix fanfictions; in fact, I would argue that I've at least tried to keep her character mostly true to canon, minus, of course, the random bouts of madness that fortunately or unfortunately seemed to plague her canon counterpart. To this end, she hasn't been shown as the pure hearted victim of some obscure marriage contract that for some reason warps her mind, or as a muggle and muggle born loving 'rebellious' pureblood in the mould of Sirius. She isn't an 'ice-queen' either (a term I am well aware is usually used with fanon Daphne Greengrass; the canon version, obviously, was once accidentally mentioned in a sentence and never given the dignity of having a dialogue to deliver), so keep that in mind. Despite all this, it is hard to not reduce Bellatrix to a caricature (if only taken too far the other way), but I shall try my best.

The ages of a few characters have been varied (I know, for instance, that Bellatrix canonically graduated from Hogwarts in the early sixties). I request you to overlook this, as this isn't a treatment that has been indiscriminately applied. You would, in fact, be better off treating this as a self sufficient fic that borrows a few details (magical system included) from canon.

I might make a few additions to this A/N if, around halfway through this work, certain things are still unclear, but for now I think that will be all.

With that out of the way, let us begin.

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**The Journey**

The preparatory hoot of a whistle—five minutes to go. A discordant chorus on the platform, whispers hundred and a dozen bellows. The silken rustle of robes. The frazzled rasp of faded cloth worn by mudbloods in the throng. Moist eyes everywhere; moist eyes, and heavy bodies blindly, clunkily bumbling forward with outstretched arms, into outstretched arms. Embraces exchanged.

There is an air of triteness to all this, Bellatrix thought, peering through the metal bars of her coach, one hand under her chin. Wish the damn thing would move. Here I sit, a witness to sloppy hugs and infuriating, sobbingly bade farewells. Look at that pimply little pig over there with mottled pink cheeks. She's slobbering all over her pedestrian mother. Her calves are the size of an oak tree's bark, and her slender fingers wriggle like little worms— I can see them peeking out of her mother's rumpled coat; the little bint won't let go. Someday she will become a harlot who attaches herself to the arm of and spreads her legs for some knobby kneed fool preaching harmony in Wizengamot. Scum on earth.

She inched away from the window and fiddled with her hair; her mind rooted through the crowded locker of her emotions and morosely fished out a drape of boredom for her countenance; her body for a few moments made a languid acquaintance with indolence; then she uncoiled as though slowly waking from a dream, uncrossed her legs, stretched, yawned, reached into her school robes, and let her fingers close around the well-worn handle of her wand. It aroused in her a sudden burst of giddy pleasure, and for one short second she felt the slightest sliver of adoration for her surroundings: the stuffy compartment with its sliding doors; the glassy eyed clowns outside, flapping their arms and miming good-bye; the stupid students noisily striding up and down the train as they tried to locate friends or find for themselves seats; and for Hogwarts! Beautiful Hogwarts, with its hallowed hallways and its labyrinth of dungeons and dark places; Hogwarts, where, if one were clever (as she was), one could reach out and grasp power, and twist it to set one on the course to greatness and glory.

The adoration, like a tremulous wave, tried suffusing her soul with colour. Like a tittering high society host straining to converse over the cacophony of a crowded room, it tried engaging her mind in innocent, incessant chatter (thoughts) about things trivial—breakfast, boys, the braids in Dumbledore's beard, their father's antiquated bow that Cissy had this summer broken; but, in the face of the tedium of that monotonous Monday morn, it failed.

The train trilled out one last warning. Her thoughts turned to other things.

Summer was dull. When was it ever otherwise? She had to tolerate the company of her stupid sisters. Cissy, the airhead with little ambition for whom she at least had some affection, and that filthy blood traitor Andromeda (oh, but how Andy denied it; how, while red in the face, she claimed she had nothing, nothing at all to do with some of the lousy mudblood filth who, perhaps for the privilege of someday stroking her wet cunt, bestowed her with their simpering affections and with mundane offers of friendship) whom she could not yet put out of her misery. Family! What in them could one admire? The adults deprived her the privilege of their society, treating her as though she were a touch me not; and her cousin, now in his second year, with whom she as a consequence was forced to fraternize, was a witless mediocrity. Sirius would meet a sticky end—preferably at the tip of her wand. Gryffindor, and proud of it! Poor aunt Walburga, forever wringing her hands at the obscene actions of her child. Why, if she, Bellatrix, were to ever bring to life such a barbarous beast, then perhaps she would, while giving it suck, pluck from its smiling mouth her nipple and dash against the sharpest of rocks its thankless head.

The train shuddered spasmodically and began to pull away with a languid chug chug, lazily exhaling little puffs of smoke; then, with a roar, it gathered pace, and the waving wizards and weeping witches were soon specks in the distance, a smattering of insects that crawled on the shrinking platform. Like a serpent slithering out of its hole, Bellatrix thought, watching as they wound their way around a bend; Salzar Slytherin would be proud.

The compartment doors slid open, and in tumbled a dishevelled Dolohov, trunk in hand. Behind him was Lucius Malfoy, who no doubt already had another seat in some other portion of the train, but nonetheless had decided to make rounds. Flanking Malfoy were his brainless cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.

"Nowhere else to sit," said Dolohov, plopping down next to her and dropping his trunk at her feet. "Hope you don't mind." He was a seventh year she'd acquainted last year. His grey eyes favoured her with a quick wink as he scratched at the faint red marks on the underside of his face. Scars. They hadn't been on his face when she had last seen him, which was two months ago.

Malfoy slid opposite her, and a goon took up a position on the left and the other on the right. He was four feet across, and this close she could see the smattering of acne that had awkwardly sprung up on his pale face. He was in her year and a family friend; the Malfoys were filthy rich, and it was in her best interests to sprinkle their silly scion's feet with gentle kisses, and to liberally slather his juvenile mind with sugary praise and honeyed worship.

Which, of course, is why she began by insulting him.

"Is ickle Lucy lost?" she cooed. "I saw him on the platform, sad eyed, delivering to his mother's broad back three perfunctory blows because she wouldn't let go," and now she grinned in delight, heavy lids stretched upward, violet eyes glinting more in mischief than malice, voice rising in a falsetto, "oh, how he finally wriggled free, and raised his pointy widdle chin, and thrust out a solemn hand for his father to shake! Royalty with poise and dignity, I say. Thank you for showing us mudblood lovers the way."

A bead of sweat, which had accumulated on the underside of his right eye, navigated, like a muddy stream, the streaky bristles and ugly erosions on his face before trickling down his jaw and disappearing into his robes through the slight slit at the neckline. Then he raised a ringed hand, well-manicured, and swatted his right cheek. His lips let loose a sibilant sigh and, like a seam splitting, pulled apart to reveal a rueful smile. It reminded her of a ghastly grin she'd once spied in a magazine, on the ruined face of an inferi.

"Lost, indeed," he said with a laugh. "This is the thanks I get for trying to find you." He inclined his head to the right. "We'd saved you a seat, Bella— the usual lot, I mean. Rodolphus, Rosier, Amycus, Alecto…" He raised an eyebrow. "You did not show. Someone else took the seat. A minute ago, Narcissa came by with a few friends of hers, and she said you were here. Besides," he pointed to the shiny badge on his chest, "it's my duty to do the rounds."

"And of those mountain trolls to follow you, no doubt," she said, eyeing Crabbe and Goyle. "Your concern for my wellbeing is touching. Did you contract dragon pox over the summer? Hide those spots, they look ugly."

Yet again he consciously reached up and patted his cheek, and yet again he decided not to rise to her bait. He did not, in fact, like her. Never had: not when he first met her, aged seven, at a party at the Black manor; nor later, in their first year together, when they'd both been sorted into Slytherin and suffered the fate of sharing both a common room and a common table for potions; and nor after that, despite her keeping well out of his way for the most part. The blunt bitch thought too highly of her ability, as though she were the second coming of Merlin...why, not even Potter had a similar level of arrogance! He did not appreciate being talked to in this manner— but the others had insisted that he go, look, and double back to let them know what sorry excuse she had _this _year for sitting separately; and he could hardly refuse, could he? What would he say? He was a Malfoy, and it was his duty to embrace the diplomacy that he hoped would someday feel more a part of him and less like an attached limb. Eccentric bitch. The games they all played were juvenile, and he had decided a while ago that he hated them all. But it never hurt to cultivate these relationships— if you could even call them that—; for, as his father had informed him, this is what they thrived on; these relationships would someday, in some way, benefit him. So he smiled and bore what two years ago he would've raged at. His eyes flitted over to Dolohov, and he too noticed the scars; and also the partially open mouth, which revealed uneven teeth— the incisors protruding ever so slightly, one chipped and the other yellow. And Lucius was sure that he too was judging him, and expecting from him some sort of rebuttal that would restore to his name the dignity owed to a Malfoy. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

"Shall I tell them that you have no intention of joining them?" he asked in clipped tones. He suspected that Rodolphus had begun to take a romantic interest in Black. Poor dull Lestrange.

"I will visit them if there is nothing better to do. Now shoo." And with a flick of her wrist, she indicated that he—he, Lucius Malfoy! — was dismissed. To Dolohov she turned, while Malfoy for a second sat as though she had stunned him, or worse, struck him across the face. Then he rose to his feet, pried open the compartment door, indicated to his goons that they were to follow, and, with an ironic bow, took leave.

"Good kid," Dolohov said, as the door slid shut. "Thicker than he thinks he is, but good. The right sort. Rich, yes. Very rich. But his heart's in the right place." Here he paused, and cast out of the window his gaze; some friendly foliage in jerky motions slipped out of sight. He pulled from his pocket a wand and conjured a paper cup. From a dusty bag by his feet emerged a battered bottle, inside which a bright brown liquid swirled.

"Profound," Bellatrix said, rolling her eyes. "Pass me the firewhiskey. How was your summer?"

"Great," he said, and then again, more slowly, "best I've had," and, seeing the interest that flickered on her face, elaborated. "Met a few people. Did a few things. The world is changing, Ms. Black, and I've found—I've found that I wish to be a part of something greater. This change, it's for me; this change makes me happy."

Perhaps it was the cup of firewhiskey she clutched in her hand and hesitantly sipped that made her more alert. The train rattled. The whiskey sloshed. She studied with care his manner. Cool. Carefree. Calculated. This had been rehearsed a hundred times. He wasn't naive, and neither was she. A seventh year she wasn't close friends with wouldn't, with such freedom, say something so open ended, nor would he so carelessly drum up such intrigue. This was no confession that his skittish soul had urged him to spit out in a warbled whisper; nor was it something that he, in a burst of ecstasy, had felt the urge to confide— no, not a seventh year; not a Slytherin.

An invitation to probe further, then. A token of tentative trust, by someone whose ideals mirrored hers. This conversation, or some variation of it, she was sure, would be repeated in corridors, in classrooms, in other coaches on this very train, always in secrecy— secrecy was key. The papers, that to this day printed with impunity their muggle propaganda, had mentioned instances that to the filth and their putrid brains would without doubt seem merely coincidental; however, to those that in every scribbled word searched for the scourge that to all things mundane would bring an end; to those that night and day pored over every piece of paper in the hope that they would in some way glean something—some vital chain of events, perhaps, that promised a purge, a reclamation of society; there were obvious tells: the odd disappearance; the innocuous declaration that lord Rosier due to ill health had stepped down and turned over his vast wealth and his seat in Wizengamot to his son, who, if the things whispered about him were true, was tired of their cowering ways and wished to restore to the wizarding world its glory days; an advert on page nine that in four crisp sentences said something about the Knights of Walpurgis...hundreds of little things that she had over the previous year and a half spotted, and that when added up meant…

The door was wrenched open. Red hair, rumpled robes, fidgeting feet, freckled face; there, in the doorway, like a quidditch keeper trying make himself big and fill the frame of a hoop, stood the Gryffindor keeper, Fabian Prewett.

Bellatrix exhaled and leant back. The moment was gone.

Fabian found himself the object of twin stares, both hostile. Perhaps, perhaps it wasn't all that good an idea—

"What do you want?"

Those violet eyes were regarding him with inquisitiveness and irritation. He screwed up his courage. He was, after all, a Gryffindor, and he had vowed—

"Well?"

"I was wonder—" he began; but the sound was all wrong; it was not manly rumble he'd intended it to be, but an undignified squeak that on 'wonder'— to his detached wonderment— cannibalized itself; and there he stood for a moment with a flaming face and an open mouth, in silence.

"Have you taken a bludger too many to the head, Prewett?" Bellatrix asked, and as she sipped from her cup he could see her luscious lips curl into an O—

"Would ya—would ya go to Hogsmeade with me?" he blurted out.

The only indication she gave that she'd heard him was a raised eyebrow. Her companion sniggered. Smug faced bastard. Fabian suddenly felt light headed; his face was flushed and his heart a drum—

She methodically, ever so methodically, set down her cup, cleared her throat, brought together her palms, turned to him, and with a dimpled smile that to him seemed oh so charming, said:

"No. Now bugger off."

He stepped out and, with a shaking hand, shut the door. An apology had been at the tip of his tongue, but he didn't quite trust himself to deliver it. Then, with vague laughter ringing in his ears, he scurried through the corridor, barely avoiding barrelling into a food trolley. Then he roused, from the agony of rejection, his numb heart. This, admittedly, was easy to do; no disappointment, till date, had kept him down for over five minutes. He cast about for the compartment where he'd left his luggage, found it, slid open the door. It'd been empty when he'd ambled away to confess his passions; it was no longer so.

"Harry!" he cried. "You all right? Been two months, mate."

Harry Potter, who with a hunched back had been poring over a textbook, started, straightened, and set down the text on the seat next to him. Harry's eyes met Fabian's, observed the scarlet ears and the vermeil brow—they complemented his carmine hair well. He sighed.

"What've you got yourself into this time?" he asked.

Fabian seated himself and grimaced.

"I asked out Bellatrix Black."

Harry removed his spectacles and wiped them against the sleeve of his shirt.

"Asked out Black," he said placidly. "That known blood supremacist, who by all accounts hates _blood traitors_?"

Fabian stared at his battered trunk in sullen silence.

"Black only goes out with posh bigots. Even _I _know this, Fabian—your sister told me."

"You say something about not having two knuts to rub together, and I swear—"

"You asked her out on the _Hogwarts express. _What's wrong with you?_" _

"Not gonna ask how it went?"

"Oh," Harry slipped his spectacles back on, "went swimmingly, I'm sure." He could feel a laugh bubble up inside him over Fabian's downcast face. "Why the express, again?"

"I—it's the only place a slytherin isn't slytherin," and, seeing Harry's confused face, he quickly clarified, "she's around others at school. Couldn't approach then. Malfoy left her compartment, and I thought— Frank tried it with that slytherin half-blood last year, and it worked." he shrugged helplessly, and his shoulders slumped. "Merlin, I'm dumb at times. But she's so pretty, and I—" he groaned.

"At times?" But Harry was smiling. To him, Fabian was more than an acquaintance. He'd spoken to him for the first time a year and a half ago. Harry was then in his fourth year. He'd been dating Molly Prewett, then in her sixth year and now out of Hogwarts. That relationship had lasted three months and ended without acrimony. But before it ended, Fabian had approached Harry. _I'll duel you to the death to defend my sister's honour, _he'd said, gnawing at his lower lip and refusing to maintain eye contact. Then, as if suddenly possessed by a malevolent spirit, he'd pulled out his wand, flailed his arms, gnashed his teeth, and cried: _I'll kill you— I'll kill you if you hurt her_. And when Harry, struggling to keep a straight face—Fabian had failed Defence against the Dark Arts, and needed remedial classes over the summer to make it to year four—, had favoured him with a solemn nod, he'd stowed his wand into his robes and scampered off.

The next day, in Slughorn's class, Fabian had occupied the seat next to him.

"Please don't tell Molly," he'd mumbled. "She'll kill me."

And thus had begun an unlikely relationship. Harry hadn't yet found a term for it; it was not friendship, and yet it was more than mere acquaintance.

"Say," said Fabian, drawing him out of his thoughts and back to their bland compartment, "didn't you floo to school last year? Dumbledore's fireplace? Why by train this time?"

"He's, uh, gone to Germany for some summit," Harry said. "Told me to take the train."

"Probably teaches you all sortsa things, eh? You're lucky, man. So lucky." But behind the awe in his eyes, there swirled— perhaps even unknown to Fabian himself, thought Harry— a baser sentiment, envy. It was a pity that, even spectacled, he, Harry, could see through most people with such ease. There was no blame to be attributed here; these were sensations, he was sure, he too would feel if their roles were reversed. However, he couldn't help but resent Fabian for the timely reminder as to why he had a few people he hung out with, but no friends.

"A few things," Harry said with a shrug. "Listen, I've got to go to the prefects' compartment. I guess I'll see you at school?"

He stood, picking up his book as he did so. Fabian's nod and his weak attempt at a playful jibe were duly ignored. Within the hour, the train would grind to a halt, and then, as they soared through the sky in thestral pulled carriages, the silhouette of the castle—their school—would loom large. Professor Dumbledore. He wished at times that the headmaster hadn't so callously thrust upon him— but no; no, the headmaster was a kind man, and this was not the time for such ingratitude. No, he was many things, but never ungrateful.

His nagging conscience, however, conjured up echoes of the disagreement that he'd had that morning with his parents, over breakfast, in front of James. His raised voice, their wearied ones—it was always over the same thing, the same damn thing. He'd noticed the worried glances James had tentatively thrown his way, and now he felt bad for the contempt that he felt for his little brother at that moment; it wasn't James's fault that he was a second year that knew so little about magic, about freedom, and it was unfair to expect him to understand—

And his resentment, Harry's resentment, that over the whole summer had been steadily building, had made him say some truly horrible things….

But they had consented. Merlin, he'd finally made them, and for that he was happy.

The door to the prefects' compartment had, engraved on it, a snitch, and as he stretched out a hand to slide it open, its fluttering wings seemed to tell him that he too was about to take flight.

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**A/N:**** I'm re-uploading this, as I have an urge to continue it. **

**Reviews are much appreciated, and I have no issues with criticism either, so please feel free to offer whatever feedback you wish to. See ya at the next update, if you're still around. Regards. **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**** I'd like to sincerely thank everyone who reviewed last time. Your reviews were devoured with relish, and your concerns were noted. **

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**The DADA Professor**

Professor Horace Slughorn sat in Professor Dumbledore's chair, and repeatedly ran through his thinning hair a sweaty hand. His flickering tongue coated with saliva his chapped lips, and his rheumy eyes— they glistened in the faint light— flitted from face to face, alighting on each for no more than an instant. When these hasty glances were reciprocated, Slughorn's gaze shot to the ground, like a giant that by accident trips itself and tumbles four floors down in a tangle of limbs; then it shot up and affixed itself to the false ceiling. The food in his plate lay untouched.

Harry smiled whilst sipping his soup. Such, he mused, were the pressures of trying to replace, for a few days, the great man.

And at last, when the feast was done and the plates put away; when the ghosts that had through the walls emerged had into them returned; when the rattle of the Bloody Baron's chains ceased, and Peeves the poltergeist with a final drawn out cackle swooped away; when the din of merriment had in volume dwindled to a murmur, which in turn gradually died out, Slughorn stood, and, drawing a deep breath—

But he knocked over his goblet; acknowledged with a timorous smile the titters that broke through all four tables; set it straight again. Professor Flitwick, who sat by his side, vanished the spilled contents whilst clucking of his tongue in sympathy. Slughorn cleared his throat. Silence.

"I am your deputy headmaster," he began, "and this is not my chair—" Sniggers. "But then I was not Deputy last year," he continued hastily, the faint beginnings of a blush breaking out on his jiggling jowls like a rash too often scratched; he had forgotten whatever speech he'd thought out. "It was professor Robards, who, of course, has retired— but...but we will get to that later, I suppose," he finished lamely. He cleared his throat again and composed himself.

"Professor Dumbledore, who— and I say this for the benefit of the first years—is headmaster, will return tomorrow, and… and I have some announcements to make.

"The forbidden forest is forbidden, with good reason. You do not want to see what is in it. Your timetables will be handed to you tomorrow by your—" he turned to Flitwick, and Harry was certain the whole hall could hear him mouth _heads? _ "your... heads of houses," he said, after Flitwick favoured him with a nod. "In place of Professor Robards, who for over twenty years taught defence here and was the best deputy headmaster one could ask for— and whose farewell, of course, some of you would have attended... he liked the candy; he told me to tell you he liked the candy you gave him." This, in the prepared version of the speech, was presumably meant to be a joke, but it was met with stony silence, for Slughorn had delivered this proclamation in an ominous whisper, white faced. He fished out from his pocket a handkerchief and nodded, nodded as though his life depended on it.

"In place of Professor Robards, we will have Professor Tom Marvolo Riddle, a former student—" and before the figure at the end of the table could get to his feet, Slughorn continued, "and—oh yes, there will be an event—a tournament— for which we will be holding trials...but, but I believe, ah, yes, Professor Dumbledore will tell you about that when he returns, of course, of course." And then, wiping his brow, wiping in haste his hands against his waist coat, ignoring the gracious smile that professor Riddle sent his way, he said, "Prefects, please lead your charges back to your common rooms. Good night. Good night everyone. See you tomorrow morning." And with that, he slumped back in Dumbledore's chair.

All around him, Harry heard the scraping sounds of chairs being drawn back. The shuffling of feet followed. He tried to manipulate the corners of his lips into a welcoming grin, then stood and made his way to the edge of the table, where the fidgety first years (had he ever been that tiny?) were, whilst emitting the odd squeak, listening to Amelia Bones, the other sixth year Gryffindor prefect.

"We'll wait for the others to leave; it's easier that way, see?" she was saying earnestly. "Hogwarts is your home for the next seven years, and, I promise, you'll love every moment here. Great facilities. The classes, the activities, they're all amazing, and you'll make so many friends." The words gushed out in a cascade, and yet they were distinctive and her diction precise. When she stressed on _facilities, amazing_ and _friends (_an odd sort of stress with no pause, no deep drawn breath)_, _the words were with some vehemence delivered: a sudden sharp upturn of pitch, a jerk of the shoulders, a bob of the head, a shimmy of closely cropped brunette. She nodded to him as he approached, and swept behind her left ear a few stray strands of hair. "Hey, Harry," and to the rest, "this is Harry Potter. He's the other sixth year prefect. Harry, we're going to wait for the everyone else to file out."

"Sure," he said, and offered the first years the smile he'd painstakingly manufactured. If Amelia's delicate snort was anything to go by, it didn't have the intended effect. He turned to Amelia. "Didn't get to ask you in the prefects' carriage, how was your summer? Trip to France, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes. Edgar didn't wish to be saddled with me for two weeks. But he roamed the city, and I found a duelling society, so it worked out all right. Oh, and he's an auror now! Gave his exams last month, and then the trip to France— but you know all that already. Mother and father bought him a, what was it now— something quidditch related, some kind of robes." She rolled her eyes.

"Falmouth Falcons," Harry said. "He wrote to me last week. There was an implicit invite to go to three broomsticks and get smashed. Sadly, I was busy."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow. "Dumbledore's a taskmaster?"

He hummed an affirmative. "Also," he said, "your brother's a cheapskate. I'd expected a feast, given how much you and I helped with his projects."

"Tell him that." She smirked. "No, seriously, write that to him. _But Amy_, _trainees make so little_." She was imitating Edgar's low monotone. Then she looked smug. "But I know for a fact that half his stipend-" she glanced at the first years and shrugged. "I'll tell you later. Grownups doing grown-up things is a subject best left to the privacy of the common room, no?"

He hummed again; shut out the noise swirling around him; peered over Amelia's head—she stood facing him and was a head shorter than him— at the new defence professor. With a slow movement her body tilted sideways and her head swiveled to stare in the same direction.

"He's very good looking. There's that, at least," she remarked.

_True_, Harry thought. Professor Riddle was probably in his mid-thirties. He stood at six two and had draped over his wiry body a plain black cloak, the kind one expects to find on a caricature portraying the studious, sleep deprived, Hogwarts going recluse; the kind of caricature that has neither the means nor the inclination to remedy its social situation, and no desire to bear upon its person some shallow symbol of ostentation that could, perhaps, catapult it into the company of those of a higher station—this studious caricature shunned such things. However, despite its bland nature, that cloak somehow helped enhance Riddle's charm: _trust me, I am one of you_, his clothing seemed to say; _I too am poor and live within my means_.

His hair, jet black, was neatly slicked back, and this helped emphasize an aristocratic face— high cheekbones, sharp nose, kind brown eyes, sensitive lips that whilst conveying amusement quivered into a carefree smile. He was laughing at something Professor Mcgonagall was saying.

"Think he's competent?" Amelia asked.

"Would Professor Dumbledore hire him if he weren't?"

"Harry, we've had this conversation before," she said. "Dumbledore is better than most, but, well... you didn't take divination in year three, did you? I've purged from my memory the professor's name. Yes, he was really that bad. Horrible hire. I still remember... but I can see I'm not making an impression. Either way, I shifted to runes the next year, and— Oh, where's he now? Fired. Yes, _yes, _I know. _And I know that you know he's gone_. Stop giving me that smug grin, you greasy git, I'm not wrong. It was a mistake to hire him in the first place, that's what I mean. But let's not discuss this. The hall is nearly empty. Come, let's take them to the tower now." And, turning to the first years, she said, "Try and memorize this trip; it's why we waited for the others to go first. There should be fewer distractions. Now, pay attention. The stairs shift around a fair bit, but—"

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The other houses, Bellatrix imagined, pictured the Slytherin common room as a foul-smelling lair that was dank, dark, monstrous and muddy. A place with serpent shaped tiles—tiles that when trodden on emitted ominous hisses; a roof that shed crimson tears; walls that on their slick surfaces bore several twisted tapestries depicting in a splash of violent colour the death of innocence and the end of the world; and perhaps this mental picture was completed by hooded figures, decked in dark clothes and high boots, that bathed in unicorn blood as they ritualistically thrust at the air their daggers and sibilantly sang in an ancient tongue some dark, dark song as a tribute to the dark arts.

Or perhaps to them, to these other houses, this was a place where yarns were spun, power plays made, brutal politicking with a renewed vigour pursued; perhaps to them this place was a microcosm of a smarmy society that to sustain itself devoured its misfits.

But no. No. In reality, once one put aside the odd social climber such as Malfoy, Slytherin house, much to her agony, bar their notions of, and their devotion to, blood purity (and they too had their fair share of refuse: half bloods and the like, and someone even said this room had once been desecrated by the tremulous tread of a mudblood; if true, then the sorting hat had heaped on them great indignity), did not have much by way of collective personality or additional privilege to adequately differentiate themselves from the trash that dwelt in the other three houses. Slytherin too had idiots, idealists, poets, romantics, and all-round bumbling buffoons. Here, in this common room, the majority, in place of a pursuit of fructifying activity and burning ambition—or dare she say radical ideology?—meekly wove for themselves, with mediocrity as raw material, a shuddering pall for intellect; wrapped it around themselves like one would a quilt during a cold winter; submitted themselves to a thoughtless state of repose; exchanged brainless witticisms; and with sweet smiles figuratively sucked each other off. Which is all to say that self-indulgence was here the norm, and that most here had all the charm of an uprooted mandrake muddling through fiendfyre. How, at times, she wished she could empty half the house, consequences be damned!

As for facilities, then well, barring the green drapes, and the snake carvings— randomly scattered throughout the common room— and perhaps also the low temperature, a benefit of being situated in the bowels of the castle instead of atop a tower, she had her doubts about them being any better off than the others; that senile old fool would not allow it.

In Slytherin, influence got you exclusive access to...sofas in the common room, or to couches; allowed you to exchange with someone your bed, or monopolize the seats in front of the fireplace. And if you were enough of a hotshot, then you could cast silencing charms during conversations in the common room and get away with it; no prefect would strut up to you and request that it be taken down.

Her circle of acquaintances had... influence._ This is a closed society_, Rodolphus, now in his seventh year and still a prefect, had declared during a Hogsmeade weekend, when they were all drunk; _exclusive access to all slytherin privileges for my blood brothers and my sisters_. Then he'd wept into his firewhiskey; and even whilst intoxicated she'd wanted to strangle him and bash his head in with a brick for suggesting that this trivial rubbish, the token privilege that he'd wheedled out of Slughorn, was a display of power.

But either way, his _influence_ had got them seats tonight in front of the fireplace. Not that it mattered. Now that everyone else had ambled away to sleep, they were anyway left with an empty common room for themselves. It was nearly twelve. There were four of them seated there. Her, Lucius, Rodolphus, and Alecto. Amycus and Rabastan had retired a while ago, citing sleep deprivation.

Her thoughts returned to her conversation with Dolohov. He had only offered vague hints after that thrice damned Prewett had blundered his way into their compartment, but she was sure that she would find a way to piece it all together. She knew what she wanted.

"Bella? What do you think? Bella?" Alecto's face was scrunched up in consternation. _I think if I had a knife right now, I would remove from your face all that excess fat, _Bellatrix wanted to say. _You flobberworm. You revolting mediocrity. On a mental and physical level you are a monstrous error; a bulbous blotch of ink spilled by a slip of hand on a footnote in the book of nature. _

She felt a sudden urge to scream; to cause someone immense pain; to throw something at a wall and watch it shatter.

"Nothing," she said instead, offering Alecto a smile. They shared a room. They were in the same year. "My mind was elsewhere. You were saying?"

"Riddle," Alecto said. "The new Defence—"

"Tom Riddle," Rodolphus cut in. "Sounds like a mudblood, does he not? But Lucius here—" Lucius was a close friend of his, and despite Bellatrix feeling no great desire to be treated to his society, these fireside conversations more often than not saw Lucius occupy a seat and offer his opinions. This, of course, was a roundabout way of saying that here he practiced his diplomacy, for he never seemed to have an opinion on anything that mattered, and he could be maddeningly vague if you tried pinning him down. Bellatrix joined in on these conversations if she had nothing better to do and if she was not sleepy, which, admittedly, was not all that often. "Lucius thinks," Rodolphus continued, "that he has heard the name Marvolo somewhere."

"I am not sure," Lucius offered. "I could send my father a letter and ask, of course. I think I saw this name while studying a family tree." He hesitated. "Which one, I do not remember, and it was so long ago that I cannot say with certainty if—"

Bellatrix waved her hand, a hint of disdain hardening her features.

"Mudblood, Half Blood, what does it matter? The creatures that that fool with one foot in the grave hires...and the ministry lets him. They are all gutless. Incompetent. The ministry, the professors here, Dumbledore, Robards. Now Robards was a clown. _I will not have you talk about the arts your family dabbles in, Ms. Black; I see a darkness in that and I see a darkness in you. No, no, say no more. Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter! Yes, very good. That is the answer I was looking for. Very good. 20 points to Gryffindor." _Her face was twisted into an expression of mockery."Your father's coin, Lucius; your father keeps that corpse, Bagnold, in power. Your father is on the board of Governors and yet he does nothing; and Dumbledore, like a parasite, leeches the life out of our traditions, our arts, our society. This Riddle, this third-rate clown, this con artist with sludge flowing in his veins, is just another in a long line—"

Her voice had risen as she spoke, and now she was gritting her teeth. She could feel a headache coming on. She looked at his placid expression—she felt that her outbursts had lately ceased to have an effect on him—and scoffed. She pushed back her chair.

"I am going out," she said. "Good night."

"Bella—Bella, you can't." Alecto's fat face duly trotted out a disturbed expression. "Filch must be making his rounds, and—"

"And you think that that squib frightens me? Pray I do not find him, for if I do I will stun him, bind him, obliviate him, and banish him into a broom closet." And with this, ignoring the open mouths of her acquaintances, she pushed open the portrait and strode out into the darkness.

From the indents in the walls there protruded flaming torches. Down the corridor ran this column, a pair of torches every ten meters, and this was the arrangement for the next fifty meters, till the corridor itself swerved upward, and then so did the lights—upwards, out of sight, exuding throughout that angry red.

_Where to now?_ she wondered. _I am above the lake, and further upward lies a labyrinth of stairways. Fourth floor, perhaps? There is an abandoned classroom there. I could, if I wished to, go there and work on a few spells. _But she wasn't in the mood. Storming out had, in the heat of the moment, seemed right. But now as the corridor transitioned into a dungeon, and the dungeon into a chamber, and as she stalked through the chamber to a stairway that with a groan slid away and took her to a passage that, if followed to the end, would take her to the doors of the great hall, the pointlessness of this whole exercise struck her; and with a huff she blinked in irritation, let her head drop to her chin, and, with slumped shoulders, prepared to make her way back to the common room.

Then a form coming her way caught her eye. At a distance it seemed like a reflection, for the similarities were remarkable. The vision had a similarly slender frame, and a pale face so like hers that she might've been staring into a mirror; but as the other with tentative steps approached, the differences became more pronounced: the silky hair was a different colour; a tinge of pink on the cheeks like a blemish marred her double's face; and frightened brown eyes met her violet ones for a moment as they stood opposite each other, now only two meters apart.

Bellatrix's lips curled into a mocking smile.

"Evening, Andy," she chirped, taking some pleasure in how Andromeda drew away as she approached, attempting to make herself smaller, praying perhaps that the ground would swallow her up.

"Bellatrix," she mumbled. "It's way past bedtime." Then she winced as Bellatrix with an extended arm grasped her jaw.

"So it is," Bellatrix cried. And then in a small voice that one would associate with a hurt child, she said, "Why, will you give me detention, dear sister?"

"I—no, no. Please, let go."

Bellatrix's eyes lost some of their joviality, and now there was a hardness to her down drawn lips.

"Sweet sister," she said in a sing song voice, "sadly, we did not speak this summer. You barricaded yourself in your room. And on the train your friends stopped a heart to heart. So let it be here. Why, my dear, are you out at this time?" As she spoke, her voice was still pleasant, but her arm had snaked down Andromeda's jaw and now her nails were digging crescents into Andromeda's right arm, breaking skin, drawing blood. The writhing arm evoked in Bellatrix a memory of the throbbing pelt she had toyed with last winter— the squirrel she had held under cruciatus until its eyes exploded, its brain burst, till she'd stolen from it its pitiful squeals, till its pathetic squirming morphed into a weak pedalling of the hind legs; then, when it had ceased to move, boredom set in and she'd rid herself of it. No one had known. She was yet to cast about for a new toy. But perhaps, here— no, no, not here; even the walls here had eyes. Such a pity.

"I'm a prefect; I have to do these rounds," Andromeda hissed, wrapping around her sister's wrist her hand and wrenching it away, the slightest flicker of a spark in her eyes. "I'm fifteen; you, you of all people don't get to tell me—" and then, just as quickly as it had come, the spark died, and she seemed to shrivel up.

"Oh, but there is more," Bellatrix said acidly. "Your rounds ended an hour ago. I saw the other prefect return—no, no I will not buy into your filthy lies, you blood traitor. Mother and father might; they love you the most; but I, I know! You are dragging through the dirt our family's name. Whoring yourself out in some broom closet, were you not? Who was it?" With a giggle she grabbed her sister's hair. "Tell me, tell me, Andy; trust your big sister. Or shall I pluck out from your mind his name?" She fingered her wand. "You have not forgotten last time, have you?"

Andromeda's cheeks, now pink with injury, went well with her watery eyes.

"What's happened to you?" she asked, brushing away from under her eyelids the little droplets that were threatening to fall. "You and I, we were so close three years ago, and now— what's wrong with you now? I'm not your enemy. I— I still love you, and this is how you treat me. I swear, I've told no one about your use of legilimency on me, and I never will. Never! I... I am your sister, Bella. Surely, you—"

"Spare me the sentimental slop," Bellatrix said coldly. "I grew up; that's all there is to it. I hate what you have become; I hate how the affection that our family has shown you has got to your head and turned you into...into this!" Her face showed disgust. "If I catch you out again, then I promise, you will not be let off this easily; as it is, I can _smell_ the filth on you. Get out of my sight, and do not forget to scrub yourself clean tonight, lest I take it upon myself to rid our family of this blemish— you get me, do you not? Good. Now out of my sight you go." And with this, she stepped back and let her trembling sister pass, watching her disappear into the dark.

Then, with a carefree whistle, she began to make her way to that abandoned classroom on the fourth floor. A mood for some spell training had suddenly taken hold.

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**A/N**** (and this will probably be the last of its kind. A man can hope. I too know how annoying it can be when the writer decides to use their A/Ns to type out an essay on some random shit):**

Yes, Amelia Bones is in Gryffindor here. It's fascinating that in every fic of this sort I've read, she's a Hufflepuff. Now, I don't ascribe much importance to houses per se, but Bones being in Gryffindor suits this story well, so Gryffindor it is.

I will not confirm or deny any theories regarding Tom Riddle, but feel free to speculate. You'll have to wait several chapters for an explicit explanation behind why Dumbledore hired him-Is Dumbles after all a moron? Have I too fallen into the blackhole of mindless Dumbledore bashing?-but, if you were to read between the lines, then, over the next few chapters, it should frankly be quite obvious as to what I have in mind...

There might be mis-steps over the course of this work, and despite me trying my best I will make mistakes that make the prose clunky, or that leave you wondering what the fuck the writer was trying to say. Feel free to point out such issues with the prose, or with the grammar. Feel free, too, to comment on minor details that I've missed out on or written differently; it's after all been five years since I last read the HP series (I have, however, to my credit, read it five times, so I'd hope that I remember most of it), and a few inconsistencies here and there throughout the work may be chalked up to having spent a lot of time reading fanfiction.

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**Thank you for reading and please, please leave a review! I greatly appreciate them! Cheers, and have a wonderful week! **


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